


Any Lifetime

by Standinginmoonlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry Potter, Abusive Dursley Family (slightly), Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kissing, M/M, Post-War, Protective Draco, they love each other A LOT.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Standinginmoonlight/pseuds/Standinginmoonlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy’s heart was full of Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> This is all over the place really, but that's okay because so are Draco and Harry. This began from a prompt I read where it detailed Harry being locked in a cupboard for a prank, resulting in a panic attack. But we all know that I'm a sucker for Post-War love, so there's a bit of that thrown in there too. Really, it's a mess, but I enjoyed writing it. There is something very special about Draco and Harry as characters because we can write about them being so broken yet they still manage to fix each other.
> 
> I hope that you enjoy!

~

Sometimes Draco Malfoy cursed his ability to be exceptionally nosy at all times. His mother and father had raised him to listen to all gossip that was tossed around in pureblood circles because they wanted to get the scoop on what was being said about the Malfoy’s. He had particularly honed his skills by the age of ten, slinking in and out of private conversations at pureblood soirees and relaying the information back to his parents. That skill had transformed into being able to overhear everybody’s conversation and investigating any situation that he could. At ten years old, Draco Malfoy could be excused for his nosiness but the same courtesy couldn’t be extended to eighteen year old Draco Malfoy.

Draco prided himself on knowing everything about everyone without feeling as though he had to share it. His ears still pricked at the mention of the Malfoy name and he scribbled letters home to his mother about what he heard. Other than that, however, Draco absorbed information but never dropped any secrets to anyone else. He had known about Granger’s Time-Turner long before the other two thirds of the Golden Trio. He had known about Seamus Finnigan and his good friend Blaise Zabini stealing kisses from one another on the third floor corridors. He had known about Remus Lupin being a werewolf long before anybody else (even Granger, a small victory for Draco) and hadn’t whispered to a soul. Draco relished in the fact that he could retain information like a sponge but would never let a word slip.

Draco Malfoy knew everything about everybody but his knowledge about Harry Potter was the most guarded.

He watched him. He watched him daily from across the Great Hall and made mental notes of his behaviour. He saw the way that Potter struggled to butter his toast in the mornings. He caught every drop of pumpkin juice that dribbled from his half-asleep mouth. Draco knew that Potter liked to use his hands to talk and when he laughed, his eyes disappeared into a squint behind his glasses and it always looked like pure happiness had worked its way into his pores. He watched him in their lessons, his eyes peering at Harry secretly. He saw fear grip at him every time he stepped foot in the Potions store cupboard and of course, Draco knew why. These little things felt incredibly important to Draco – they were like nuggets of Potter’s heart that he wanted to hold close to his chest and guard because anyone else knowing them would upset Draco far too much.

Truthfully, he watched Harry Potter so much that he felt as though he could map his face with his eyes closed. From that bloody scar on his forehead to the way his tongue ran over his lips when he concentrated, Draco Malfoy felt like he knew Harry Potter inside out.

The war had changed Harry Potter’s face, that was certain. Faint white scars littered his golden skin, each with an equally heart-breaking story to tell, and Draco felt as though he wanted to drag his fingers over each one, caressing them with endless apologies and kissing them with a warm and eager mouth. His hair was slightly longer and Potter had a habit of pushing his fingers through it when he was concentrating on something. Draco had wished countless times that he could run his fingers through that hair instead of Potter himself and nuzzle his scalp with his nose. The war had changed Potter’s face but it had changed everything else too. The air around Hogwarts no longer felt tense and dangerous – it had dissolved into a gentle acceptance of each other with Slytherins nodding respectfully to Gryffindors in the corridor as they passed one another. After all, they had fought the same fight and felt the very same grief. Rivalry felt tedious and childish now.

For Draco Malfoy, it had taken the war to realise that he had his own secrets that he kept close. His head swam with memories of fear that twisted his stomach uncomfortably. He remembered his feet rooted to the concrete of the courtyard, Harry Potter dangling lifelessly in the arms of Hagrid. Draco remembered the gamekeeper weeping and his own chest had tightened, fear and anger dissipating into a grief that he couldn’t comprehend because it immediately ached in his heart. It had taken believing that Harry Potter was really dead to realise that Draco Malfoy’s _heart_ was full of Harry Potter. He had always been there, always with his black hair and green eyes that bore into him, golden skin and that scar that stood so proud on his forehead. Draco felt as though he would seek Harry Potter in any lifetime.

Harry Potter was the only person in the universe that Draco wanted to surrender all of his secrets to. He wanted to whisper them into the shell of Potter’s ear, muttering them against the beautifully marred skin on his neck until they didn’t feel like a burden to him anymore.

Sometimes Draco Malfoy cursed his ability to be exceptionally nosy at all times but sometimes it just about came in handy. It had been his first free period of the day and he left Pansy in the library researching the properties of goblin spit. Draco dragged his long fingers along the walls of Hogwarts absentmindedly, his fingertips quickly numbing with the texture of the tough stone on the sensitive pads. It had taken considerable effort to heal Hogwarts after the Battle and as he ran his fingers along the wall, Draco felt pride surge through him because he had helped with the rebuilding process. It had been the only inherently good choice that he had made in his life, one of the first choices that he had ever made for himself too, and he felt Hogwarts remind him of it every day.

He was roused from his daydream by a fifth year Slytherin barging into him violently, nearly knocking him over. Draco steadied himself quickly and mustered his very best Malfoy glare.

“What do you think you’re doing? “ Draco said as smoothly as he could before the Slytherin began to laugh raucously. He slipped a hand around Draco’s shoulders as if he had been friends with Draco for years, his laughter now breathless and loud in his ears. Draco shrugged his arm from his shoulders.

“Sorry mate,” the Slytherin gasped through his laughter. “I finally pulled off a prank that we’ve been planning since first year…I was just running away from the scene of the crime!” He wiped tears of laughter from his face.

Draco knew the Slytherin only by sight but he decided instantaneously that he disliked him. He was overbearing and raucous, so _un-Slytherin_ that Draco could feel Salazar rolling his eyes in exasperation. His lip curled and he pushed past the fifth year with as much force as he could.

“Oi!” the Slytherin yelled after him. “If you’re heading further up the corridor and you hear banging,” he stopped to laugh horribly and Draco began to feel the dread pooling in his belly. “Harry Potter is in one of the broom cupboards!”

A wave of horror flooded through Draco. It wasn’t common knowledge around Hogwarts that Harry had been raised by Muggles, much less that he had been mistreated horribly by them. Most assumed that his aunt and uncle were of magical blood too and even after years of that Boy-Who-Lived nonsense, only a select few knew that wasn’t the case. Draco held this information close to his chest but a large part of him wished that he didn’t know it at all. He had heard teachers whispering furiously about Harry being rescued from a cupboard where he was forced to live, barely big enough to stand in, let alone sleep in, but he knew that Harry Potter was a proud character. He had never mentioned it to anybody at Hogwarts but Granger and Weasley because Potter felt like he had it under control, even when collecting Potions ingredients made him sweat anxiously. It was sometime during sixth year that the Prophet had picked up on the story of Potter’s upbringing and somehow everyone at Hogwarts now knew about Potter’s cupboard, his darkest secret that Draco wished he’d been able to keep safe.

Draco’s feet began to run before he knew it. He followed the dull sound of a fist pounding on wood until he stood in front of the tiniest broom cupboard in Hogwarts at the end of the second floor corridor. The Slytherin had cast charms across the door that blocked any _Alohomora_ from Potter’s side. Draco’s skin prickled in anger and his jaw set furiously. Raising his wand, he muttered ‘ _Finite Incantatem’_ at the door and rushed forward to open the cupboard.

Potter fell forward from the cupboard and he landed at Draco’s feet. He struggled to breathe. Each gulp of air that he tried to swallow was enveloped by a dry sob that caught in his throat and Draco thought that his heart might break if he continued watching Potter this way. He swallowed, a lump in his throat. These kind of secrets burned at Draco’s chest – he wanted to know them but he felt too frightened to keep them close to him in case they infected him with the same fear and heartbreak.

He sank to the floor beside Potter and placed his hands on his shoulders. They were shaking, the intensity of the situation nipping at Draco’s nerves as he began to rub at Potter’s back.

“It’s alright Harry,” he whispered and he wondered where that soft voice had come from. It didn’t matter how many of his personal secrets concerned Potter because he had tried to keep the façade of dislike up in public. “Just breathe and it’ll be okay,”

Harry (“When had he become Harry?” Draco thought to himself sharply) sucked air through chapped lips and exhaled, his chest rising and falling as his heart began to beat normally. Draco clung to his jumper, pushing his fingers just beneath the cotton of Harry’s shirt and caressing his warm skin with gentle touches that told Harry it was going to be okay. After a few minutes of uncomfortably comfortable silence where their pulses slowed right down and almost synced together, Harry felt calm again. He looked at Draco with red-rimmed eyes, thankful even if he couldn’t say it.

“The war really changed you, didn’t it?” Harry murmured, looking at Draco with a curiosity that made him feel bare. Harry swept his eyes across skin that held a faint whisper of a tan and looked into warm, grey eyes that gazed at him so intensely. For Harry it felt as though eight years of bad blood had dripped away and familiarity replaced it because, in truth, all of his dreams and secrets had blonde hair and smooth skin.

Draco reached forward to cup Harry’s cheek, his thumb rubbing familiar circles across the soft skin and he couldn’t deny the warmth that spread to his toes when Harry leaned into the touch. “The war changed everybody, Harry. There’s no shame in admitting it.” He spoke with a trembling voice that felt as though it had enveloped Harry in a warm embrace. Harry knew that he was right – there was no shame in admitting that the war had ravaged him both physically and emotionally. Everybody that Harry knew had their own scars from the war, whether they lay proudly on their skin or were hidden carefully in the deepest pockets of their souls, and Harry almost felt as though he could cry with relief.

Harry shifted to his knees in front of Draco and reached forward to run his rough fingertips across his cheekbones, his skin itching to feel Draco even closer to him. He wanted to pour himself into Draco and tell him every secret that he had ever kept in his life until his throat was hoarse and his jaw hurt from talking. In that moment, Harry wanted Draco to know every inch of him, every inch of his skin that he thought would tremble under Draco’s touch if he ever had the opportunity to be touched by him. Harry leaned forward and nothing was ever going to be the same because he pressed his lips to Draco’s. His eyes fluttered shut and Draco was kissing him back with every bit of intensity and need that Harry wanted. They clung to each other, Harry with a hand on Draco’s neck, holding him closer just in case he thought to run away and Draco’s arm snaked around Harry’s waist, pulling him into Draco’s lap. They held each other so close, so achingly close that it felt as though they might melt into one another and the second floor corridor seemed to spin into oblivion. The kiss was all teeth and tongue and searing heat but it was theirs.

Harry was the first to break away, his breath catching in his thick throat as he dropped his forehead against Draco’s. They were silent again for a few moments, that comfortable silence that felt so normal to them already, before Harry murmured against Draco’s lips. “It’s not just cupboards, you know. I’m scared of so much more.”

Draco smiled despite himself. Harry’s words were simple but he felt as though he needed to guard them with his life. He kissed Harry once more and it was different. It was slow and soft and his tongue wound so carefully around Harry’s that he thought he might pass out with the intensity because it was laced with such a desperate need that Draco hadn’t realised he wanted. He broke the kiss and bent Harry’s head, pressing one final lingering kiss to Harry’s scarred forehead. “I know, Harry,” he said simply.

Because, after all, he _did_ know. Draco knew every centimetre of Harry Potter. He knew the sound of his heartbeat, the feel of his fingers on his skin. It felt to Draco as though every secret he’d ever collected was fading into nothing because here, sitting on the stone cold floor of the second floor corridor, he held Harry as close to his chest as he had any secret and he knew then that he would never hold anything closer.

 

~

                                                                                                                                                               

**Author's Note:**

> See, I told you it was a mixed bag! I enjoyed writing it though, you know how much I love a bitta hurt/comfort.


End file.
